can we just have this
by Hannah Tennant-Cumberbatch
Summary: With the Family back, Missy and the Doctor are forced to go undercover as human professors in 1970s Cambridge. But for Bill, the Family are the least of her problems. It's keeping the two Time Lords apart which proves difficult. (twelve/missy human nature au.)


_They're running. They're running so hard that Bill can feel her heart pumping brutally in her chest, the sound thudding round her ears like Big Ben on the hour—boom, boom, boom. She can taste bile in her throat, acidic and bloody, hot pain racing up her legs every time her feet collide with the concrete floor. The Doctor is just ahead of her, hand gripped tightly round Missy's forearm. Her dress has ripped round her feet. A long stream of indigo fabric trails behind her like a bloodstain. It's all going too fast for Bill to know for definite but; yes, she's convinced of it, Missy has terror on her face._

 _"_ _Come on!" the Doctor yells, his voice a harsh growl cutting the sound of distant explosions and relentless panting. A shaky mass of blue appears in Bill's eyeline. The TARDIS. Thank God, something familiar, something that will fix everything—nothing can get in the TARDIS. Nardole makes what she can only assume is a laugh of relief from behind her. They're fine. They're going to make it._

 _Missy shouts hysterically as the Doctor manically tries to insert the key into the lock. "For Christ's sake, we're not on holiday here! Get a move on!"_

 _"_ _What do you think I'm doing?" he hisses vehemently. Bill certainly wishes they were on holiday. Barcelona would be nice. Perhaps the Maldives. Space Maldives? Sun, sea, anti-gravity sand…_

"Miss Potts!"

Two fists banging loudly on the desk in front of her wake Bill from her daydream, right into the icy blue eyes of Professor Saxon. A blank ream of paper lays untouched in the typewriter. She smiles—well, more grimaces—and prepares herself for a bollocking. It's not her fault, really. She's not a bloody secretary in _real life._

"Sorry," Bill apologises, burning under the Professor's glare. "I got…distracted."

"You're always bloody distracted," Professor Saxon scolds. She eventually rises from the table, wandering over to the window. The view outside is of the back building of Queen's College, beautiful in its archaic architecture, leaking history into the present. The sky is grey and swollen with rain and the grass all the more greener for it. _At least he picked somewhere pretty,_ Bill thinks. He could've dropped them in fucking Carlisle. "It's a wonder what I even pay you for."

Bill resists the urge to scream. All the money in the universe wouldn't be adequate payment. She's only doing this for the Doctor. "Yeah, I'm sorry, Professor. What were you saying again?"

For a moment, Professor Saxon seems lost in her thoughts—but she's quickly swept back out of them, like the tide returning to the shore. "I want you to write to Professor Coverley at Newcastle and to thank him kindly for his invitation, but I'll unfortunately have to decline."

Bill absent-mindedly clicks out a reply. She's used to the keys, now, rather than the sleek board of her iMac. Even if she can still hear the tapping at the back of her brain on a night like her own internal loop-pedal. "And what should I give him as a reason?"

"Make something up," Professor Saxon barks flippantly, "Write because _I don't want to see your stupid misogynistic fucking face_ if you're feeling unimaginative."

Bill pouts, considering it. "I'll just say you have a prior engagement."

Professor Saxon shrugs, throwing herself in the chair opposite her desk. "Whatever. And when you've done that, get me a coffee. Black as you can get it. Actually, scrap that—get me the coffee now, reply later. The wanker can wait."

Bill sighs, abandoning the typewriter. Professor Saxon is no longer interested in her, rather thumbing through an aging tome on _The War of the Roses,_ reading heavily highlighted paragraphs intensely. She's not going to complain. Any time where she doesn't have to sit in a room with the Professor is time well spent, a breath of fresh air, like she's not going to be chained to her ankles for the next two months.

 _She's doing this for the Doctor. She's doing this for the Doctor._

By now, she's fairly used to the layout of Queen's, but mainly the nexus of offices between the Professor's study and her preferred lecture theatres. Bill's essentially her skivvy, running between rooms with books and papers and coffees. She certainly never leaves her without something to do—Bill doesn't know whether to be annoyed or grateful for that. Silence means her mind wanders. Silence means she—

"Bill!"

She's greeted cheerfully by the small, round shape of Nardole, clutching a small briefcase. Every time they collide a feeling of intense relief floods through her, because Nardole is proof she isn't going absolutely insane. "Nardole! Hey!"

He blinks, eyes huge behind his glasses. "How…are you?"

Bill narrows her eyes. "You mean how is _she,_ don't you?"

There's no point in attempting to look anything other than sheepish. "Yeah, but I'm concerned about you too. I heard that you were…"

Bill knows instantly what he's insinuating without the words escaping his mouth. Even in the seventies, it's not easy being a woman, and it's _especially_ not easy being a black woman. The posh wankers that walk Queen's' halls make that especially clear to her at every opportunity. God knows what would happen if any of them discovered her sexual preferences—spontaneous combustion, perhaps? "No, it's fine, really. It's only two more months, right?"

"Right!" Nardole says, but there's a thick layer of uncertainty in his tone that makes Bill feel uneasy. "Mi—the _Professor_ isn't working you too hard, is she?"

"She'd have me down on my hands and knees and scrubbing her lav if she could," Bill snorts. "Even as someone else, she's determined to make my life a misery. The chameleon arch doesn't change that much."

"But other than that… She's not, y'know? Been suspicious?"

"No! God, no, she hasn't," Bill reassures her friend, "I've shoved the watch in her filing cabinet. She's barely even looked at it. What about…Professor Smith? Has he…?"

Nardole shakes his head decisively. "No, not an inkling. He's been having some dreams, but nothing remotely incriminating. He's a bit angrier as a human. Threw a blackboard rubber at my head because he _didn't like how shiny it was._ I know they're a bit iffy on corporal punishment in this decade but that is taking the biscuit."

Bill smothers a giggle under her breath at the image. "He'd get on with Professor Saxon. She's been tempted to throttle me a few times."

"Not like her to have any self-control when it comes to brutality. Maybe we should keep her as a human after all this is over. Could be better for the whole universe."

"Certainly tempting, but I think if she ever found out she'd definitely kill us. Speaking of which," Bill pushes past him, "She's sent me on a coffee run. She'll get suspicious if I'm not back soon."

"Right you are," Nardole smiles, gesturing in the direction of the staff common room. "Remember, if you—if anything about her behaviour troubles you, come find me. And if you feel like we're compromised, give her the watch. Just give her the watch."

She's had the debrief etched in her memory ever since that day. Every word carved into her soul, eyes blurry with unshed tears, fear burning in her blood. She's not going to forget that in a hurry. She's not going to forget _their faces,_ their desperation, in a hurry.

"Of course," she offers Nardole one last hopeful smile. "I'll catch you later, yeah?"

Nardole nods in agreement, before turning and walking in the opposite direction. Bill lets out a breath, so loud it echoes round the empty corridor, a shiver rushing down her spine. God, she just wants this all to be over.

Two more months. Just two more months.


End file.
